I grew up with a sense of working class injustice. But I never imagined, when I was a student at Hull University, drinking into the night and conspiring social change, that one day I would be a chief executive of a leading mental health charity.
I can see, from other people’s eyes – often just a flicker, but sometimes palpable surprise – that they, too, find it disquieting. I know I’m not the only working class chief executive, but being repeatedly told I’m so “real” gets old fast. I have to resist the urge to shout back: “I don’t even know what that means!”
Is it my accent, with its north London twang? Perhaps it’s my appearance, as a big woman, with tattoos I can’t hide.
I have been a chief executive for 14 years now, but I often consider my immigrant heritage and what my dad, in particular, who grew up in such poverty, would think about what I’m doing now.
My maternal grandparents came from Ireland in 1953 at the age of 16, and my paternal grandparents fought prejudice in South Africa to finally settle in the poorest part of Glasgow. They all suffered humiliating discrimination that I felt they carried throughout their lives, to some extent. I am hugely proud of my grandparents but realise my job could be a source of ambivalent pride for them – awe of my success but also a fear of being left behind and losing me to something else.
At times, I struggle with a sense of betrayal. In many ways, I don’t feel I belong to a class at all anymore, which can be unsettling. I can soothe my discomfort in those moments by holding onto my difference as an asset, rather than a deficit. When I wonder whether I’m good enough to hold this position, I remind myself of the power of my difference. In history, change came from people like my grandparents who banded together to overthrow an unjust status quo – grateful, I imagine myself shouting “vive la revolution!”
I certainly don’t consider myself as a role model to other working class people – that very idea feels incredibly pretentious. Instead I see that I have been able to climb on the shoulders of my parents and grandparents, who made it possible for me to get a degree in social policy and social work, and realise my aspirations. My dad left school at 13 but he always believed education was the way out of poverty. Despite living in squat-like conditions when I was a baby, my parents were able to fight their way out and get a beautiful Victorian house from the council – those were the days when you could. They worked hard to make sure their children aspired for more.
I’ve often wondered how much my class has defined my leadership approach, and how my professional life has altered my working class perspective. In many ways, my roots mean I never lose sight of why I came into this work in the first place. I don’t make decisions based on someone’s status or position, and am led by the values our charity promotes. My board has always been explicitly clear that there was a synergy between what it wanted and what I could offer, and that has given me great confidence.
There is a continual debate in the voluntary sector about leadership. Leaders are now able to show different aspects of themselves and move on from traditional notions of leadership. But it feels like there is still a high chance that we might retreat from this subject and stop talking about class. We must always be clear that inequality at all levels of life is harmful in every way, and pretending it is no longer so is simply naive. Seeing more people like me at the top of their game is important. The biggest shift for me personally will come when I don’t feel like my being in this role is surprising to anyone.
I believe I have used my education and ability to articulate the consequences of inequality in everything I do, and that my working-class roots have made me less tolerant of prejudice and discrimination. At times, that has alienated me from people because I continually remind myself and others about the notion of privilege. I have a reputation for being provocative and am always found at family parties debating politics and religion in the corner. If I’m honest, I don’t think that’s education; I think it’s more to do with my Celtic heritage.
As a sector more generally, I do see a sincere shift from traditional leadership ideas about position, status and “gravitas” to a less class-biased, focus on knowledge, authenticity and presence. But I’m not convinced we’re there yet.
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Sarah Hughes is the chief executive of Centre for Mental Health. This piece is an edited and extended version of an article that first appeared as part of Acevo’s 30 things to think about series.
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